Anti ItGirl
by MyDogAteMyPenname
Summary: Gossip can eat you alive. It can make you or break you. It can build or break reputations. Ruin friendships. Ruin lives… which brings me back to the point I was trying to make... She's no rebel, but Isadora Thistle sure ain't the It Girl
1. The Motherland!

I have seen it all.

I have seen all the drama that goes on in the Upper East Side- all the backstabbing, bitch-slapping, friendship breaking…

I'm still here.

I am not Gossip Girl; I'll let you know that right away. I'm not one to lie. I'm not like those girls GG writes about. I tend to stay in the background. And for the most part, they ignore me. It suits me fine. I leave them alone and they leave me alone.

But, little to they know- I see everything. I can see through their makeup, their face-lifts, their fake, whitened smiles, their implants- their superficial exteriors.

No one realizes that I, a mere sophomore, see all. Not the girls at dance, not the kids at school.

I currently live in the Upper East Side, next door to the Waldorfs. I like to walk to school, rather than taking a taxi. Living in New York is the best thing ever. From the blossoms in the spring, to the beautiful orange and red leaves in autumn.

I came from a small town in upstate New York, so it was a huge transition for my family and me.

But, it's still the same. You seem to know everything about all of your neighbors, and then some. There's always a rumor mill everywhere you go. You can't escape it.

Gossip can eat you alive.

It can make you or break you. It can build or break reputations. Ruin friendships. Ruin lives…. which brings me back to the point I was trying to make...

Now that I'm _officially_ an Upper East Side girl, I've been receiving a bit of attention... just a little more than I did when I lived in Greenwich Village.

My name is Isadora Thistle-Evangelista. (Isadora Evangelista to you) I am the daughter of the newest, freshest face in the fashion world- Phinneaus Quell Thistle, an up and coming designer. (What a name, right? What were my father's parents _on_ when they named him?) Anyway, as much as I love my (very, _very_ straight) father, I hate his fashion line. I loathe it. And you know what is really sad? He says I've inspired him. I've inspired the ho-baggity, frilly, skin-tight, far-from-Converse-shoes-and-knee-length-skirts fashion line that is slowly, but surely, gaining popularity among the fashion darlings. It'll be any day now when it hits my school…. any flipping day.

Okay… It's official. I hate Mrs. Waldorf (or whatever her new last name is) with a seething, burning _passion_. She invited us for some stupid welcome party…. in our house. Welcome party, my ass! They were just there to check out who was trampling on their Upper West side, schmancy–pants territory. I could _so_ see them checking out the flipping Chinese carpet. And, do you know what she asked me!

"Oh, _darling_, is this gorgeous rug a family heirloom?" she cooed, fluttering her gooped-up-with-mascara eyelashes.

"'Um, no, but thanks," I replied quickly, nodding at her and Blair. "We bought it last month."

"_Oh_," she said, in that stupid airy voice of hers. "I thought it would belong to you because you have some Oriental features."

"Well, _ma'am_," She looked shocked at my terminology. "We bought this rug from the Motherland!" My father was shaking his head in the background. "And after that, we chanted spells around the bonfire and ate Adobo and drank coconuts as we sat on straw mats in the middle of the beach." I replied curtly, storming out of the room.

I don't even know if coconuts are native to the Philippines…. No, wait, they are.

From the stainless steel kitchen, I could hear Blair yelling stuff like, "Oh, mom, you're such a fucking bigot! I don't believe you!"

It finally dawned on me that _Blair Waldorf_ in all her Gucci-clad glory was in our apartment. _Blair Flipping Waldorf_ is in my house. And, she probably tell Serena, or someone about how embarrassing I am, or how stupidly idiotic our place is. I buried my head in my hands. After one and a half years of keeping out of sight, it would be ruined because of some outburst in my living room.

"Um, hey… Isadora." Blair said, appearing in my kitchen. I figured she'd be uncomfortable here, but she was seemingly cool and collected. "I'm apologizing for my mother's bitchy-ness. She's such a WASP… without the P." She laughed as if it was the funniest quip in the world.

I chuckled weakly, tucking a stray black strand of hair behind my ear. There was an incredibly awkward silence that followed. Blair slipped into the bar stool next to me, giving me a smile. It was probably a pity smile or something.

"So, Izzy- uh, can I call you that?" she asked, putting her chin in her manicured hand, her elbow resting on the table, her beady green eyes looking at me.

"Uh, sure… whatever."

"Good, because 'Isadora' is just, like too much," she said and spun my stool around, beginning to undo my usual ballerina bun so she could play with my hair. Okaaaay? "So, do you have a boyfriend?"

She's asking me these questions already. Rumor says that she does this is a common practice she does with underclassmen to make her reputation look good. Yay. I've just earned a big sister.

"Pssh, no!" I said finally after gawking at her for a few moments.

"Do you have someone in mind?" Blair winked.

"Um," I pursed my lips. There was this one guy, but why the hell would I tell her? "No, not yet, anyway," I finally said, lying through my teeth. I am an expert liar that even the scheming Blair Waldorf can't see through my stories.

So… Whaddaya think? Like it? Loathe it! REVIEW PLEASE!


	2. Get A Flipping Grip

**Chapter Two**

My dad thinks I'm some sort of masochist because I take four different dance classes for five days a week. (Ballet for two days) And then voice lessons on Saturday. Well, what else am I supposed to do in my free time? Go _shopping_?

You know what he says to that? "Why not?" Oh, god.

At least, you know, I'm not bringing home a new slut-bag of a girlfriend every other day.

Honestly! How old is he now? Thirty-nine? …Then again, there was this survey that said sex took up most of a man's mind, so there you go. But really. Couldn't my dad find someone a little more… classier? I'm sure there are tons of great, intelligent actresses and women of that sort who would like to date a _fashion designer_. But, nooo, my father has to date his stupid models.

* * *

I stopped right in front of the steps to Constance Billiard School, scowling as usual. Today, my stupid gray and blue tartan pleated skirt was not sitting on my hips correctly. My winter white turtleneck was feeling itchier than usual. My gray knee high socks were slipping down my legs. The shoelaces on my navy Chucks were dragging along on the sidewalk. Going by my outfit alone, I could foresee a bad day ahead.

"Hey! Isadora, wait up!"

I turned around to see Daniel Humphrey jogging towards me. Good God, that guy is sexy. I first met him when some of the girls at dance dragged me along to some poetry reading. I'm usually not a girl to do whatever it take to get a guy, but after that, I started writing crap poetry and visiting that coffee place a whole lot more.

"Uh.. hey," I managed, adjusting my Capezio bag. "Hi, uh, how are you?"

"I'm good," he said with a (_sexy_) lopsided smile, taking out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. It was my ballet stationary from Madame Oubliette Dubois. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. "You left this yesterday at Java Lava…"

I tried grabbed it as politely as I could out of his hands, but he still held onto a corner. "Um, thanks, Dan. I was-"

"It's pretty good, Iz." (HE CALLED ME 'IZ'!) "It sounds too much like something I've heard before. I know you have a voice of your own…. A pretty big one." He smirked.

I was blushing furiously by now, suddenly realizing that our fingers were touching. If it was anyone else, I would have bitten their head off for criticizing my work. I hate it when people, even nicely, tell me to change something. I don't take criticism well.

I stuttered a thanks as Dan patted my cheek and walked away. "Bye, Iz," he waved, lighting a cigarette.

Oh, geez. He's a senior! He's SENIOR! GET A GRIP ISADORA! _GET A FLIPPING GRIP_.


End file.
